The Hindrances of Playing Matchmaker
by Kagu-tsuchi-13
Summary: Dani was convinced that playing matchmaker would solve everything. She was even more convinced that pairing up the two people that were obviously meant to be together would be a walk in the park. But as she quickly began to learn, there are always hindrances when it comes to matchmaking...especially when the two people happen to be Quinn Fabray and Rachel Berry.


She had always believed that the most awkward and uncomfortable day of her life would be the day after she came out. Being forced to walk down the halls of the school, all those judgmental eyes focused on her. (Or maybe they weren't, but it sure as hell felt like they were.)

She had also believed that, no matter what else happened, no day would ever compare to that; even if she came to school in her underwear and was walked in the building...by her mother...while holding hands, it still wouldn't have came close.

And up until twenty or so minutes ago, that had held true.

It was baffling, really. How could being judged by this blonde chick (whose blonde hair was clearly as authentic as her own) be worse than any of the judgments that she had recieved back home? Hell, it wasn't even like blonde girl (she did not tell Dani her name, and Dani hadn't bothered to ask) was judging her for being gay (from what Santana had mentioned, blonde girl had dipped her toe into the lesbian pool, albeit drunkenly). More-so, it seemed that blonde girl was going the "protective best friend" route—ala summoning her up and deciding if she was worthy. It wouldn't be the first time that Dani had gone through this; fathers were just as overprotective of their gay daughters as they were of their hetro ones.

"Did San say when she was coming home?"

Dani looked up from the spot on the rug that had been occupying her attention for the past ten minutes. This was only the second time that blonde girl had spoken to her, the first being: _Who the fuck are you?_—which had been said when she entered the loft and found Dani sprawled out on the couch in a lacy teddy.

"Beats me. I was planning on surprising her." She squeezed her overcoat tighter, never being more thankful that she did not follow through on her original plan of greeting Santana on the couch...in her birthday suit...lying eagle spread. (The reason she had scrapped that plan was because she had accounted on the possibility of Kurt or Rachel being with her; those three were inseparable, it seemed.)

"I can see that." Blonde girl eyed her over...and made no attempt to conceal that she was doing so. "How long you two been together? A month? Two? And already I see that you are in the stage of..." She waved her hand over Dani's overcoat concealed body. "...this."

Dani felt something go off in her. Who the fuck gave this bitch the right to judge others? As if it was a crime to enjoy the act of intimacy or when and how one did it. And besides, if the stories that Santana had told her were true, then blonde girl wasn't exactly a saint...or close to one.

"I guess I'm not like you," Dani said, her voice staying surprisingly even. "I prefer sleeping with the person that I am in a committed relationship with." She was opening a can of worms—she knew it—but she wasn't about to sit here and be inferred to as promiscuous. Not when she had always been faithful to her girlfriends, and definitely not by a hypocrite who had cheated on their significant other. Twice. (Santana had also told her a story about a guy with trouty lips.)

Blonde girl, however, didn't react right away. It seemed she was confused by Dani's choice of comeback, most likely having been expecting her to retaliate with something along the lines of: _What we do is our business. _But then her eyes lit up. She knew that Dani knew all about a certain affair concerning the boy that Santana only ever referred to as _Mohawk Ace. _And then she stood up so fast that she knocked her chair over: an impressive feat considering that it was a rather heavy chair.

"You wanna go?!"

Dani stood up as well. She wasn't nearly as angry but knew better than to back down. Hesitance was the worst possible thing to reveal. If it meant fighting in lingerie then so be it.

"You're the one who started this." She felt her coat come slightly undone and grabbed it before anymore skin was exposed. "Can we just be adults?"

Blonde girl huffed and sat back down, though it didn't stop her from shooting another dirty look as she did so.

Dani resumed looking at her spot, while also making a vow to have Santana come over to her place from now on. The worst that could happen there would be a drive by shooting, and at the moment that was looking to be pleasant change of pace.

X—X—X—X—X

"I need some air," Quinn said, and was up and out the door before _what's-her-face_ could speak. The only reason she said anything was because she didn't want to give the impression that she was leaving, thus giving the home wrecker the chance (or more accurately the excuse) to lock her out.

Once she was outside on the terrace, she let out a sigh. This was not what she envisioned when she decided to make an impromptu trip to visit her friends. She had hoped that the three of them (four if Kurt joined) could catch up, talk about their careers. Rachel had sent her a text—okay, seventeen texts—about how she got her dream part, and that if Quinn missed the opening show that they were no longer friends. At the time she had believed it to be a joke, yet now she was thinking otherwise. She did miss out on a lot—it ate her up inside that she couldn't make Finn's funeral or memorial; she was sure that the others believed her to have some sort of grudge...when that was the farthest thing from the truth.

Thoughts about Rachel and what she was going through had been on her mind the entire ride here. Quinn would like to say that she could sympathize, having dated Finn first and all, but she honestly couldn't. She was never as close to Finn as Rachel was. (And she was never as close to Rachel as Finn was.)

She let out another sigh as she leaned her body over the railing and looked down at the busy people shuffling around: men in suits and hats, carrying briefcases; women in lavish dresses, trying (unsuccessfully) to hail a tax; a group of hipsters who were all dressed so that it made it impossible to distinguish the male from the female. They all had somewhere to be and something to do (except maybe the hipsters), unlike herself, whose time was being occupied by leaning against a rail...and wallowing in self pity.

The door to the terrace opened. Quinn didn't turn around, figuring that it was _her_, probably coming out to start again; the girl had some nerve, as if it was any of her business what happened in the past.

"If you are gonna spit on the passersbyers then wait for me—I got enough Fresca in me to make it rain loogies."

Quinn recognized the voice right away (how could she not?) but didn't run and embrace her friend; she just kept her position and muttered a half-assed, "Hey."

"Calm down, Q, don't get too excited over lil' 'ol me."

"That is the worst Southern accent that I have ever heard." Quinn stayed still, even as Santana joined her and moved so close that they could reach out and touch hands...providing either wanted to do so.

Santana shrugged. "Better than yours." Before Quinn could respond to that, she added, "So why are you and Dani trying to rip each others throats out?"

Quinn turned her gaze enough to get a glimpse of her friend, who was clad in an ugly red and white uniform (which made Quinn think of _Happy_ _Days_). "I'm not the one who felt it necessary to bring up past events—events that she wasn't even around for, I might add."

"But you did feel it necessary to call her a slut?" Santana didn't sound pissed off, something that Quinn was surprised by. She seemed...disappointed, as if she was hoping that the three of them would have hit it off right away...just like a certain three cheerleaders did back in Freshman year.

Quinn didn't want to fight. She wanted nothing more than to spend the little time she had in New York with her best friend...and perhaps anyone Santana felt like inviting along, and she was even willing to feign a mutual understanding for Santana's sake.

Quinn turned her full attention to her friend. "I'll try if she will." She took one of Santana's hands in her own and gave it a light, reassuring squeeze.

Santana's lips twisted into a half grin. "That's all I expect, especially from you."

Quinn slapped her playfully on the shoulder and started back inside, though not before she hawked up as much saliva as she could and shot it at a person whom was wearing a scarf and an Abraham Lincoln styled top hat.

"That's the bitch I remember."

Quinn took a bow and resumed walking. She made it all the way to the sliding door that separated the loft from the terrace when she stopped. There was still something that had to be said, and now was as good a time as any to say it.

"So, are we ever going to discuss what happened on Valentine's Day?"

Quinn was glad that she had been looking at her friend, otherwise she would have missed the twitch. It was just a slight one: the kind that usually happened when a person ran across the carpet in socks and then touched something metal. This twitch, however, told Quinn a lot—as in that Santana was not up for discussing those events, and it also gave Quinn a clue in the burning question: Had Santana told her girlfriend about that drunken night that she shared with the one and only Lucy Quinn Fabray? The answer was now leaning towards a definitive no.

Many times Quinn had wanted to call Santana and discuss that night. Not just the physical part, but the emotional part as well. The night had meant a lot to her; opened up an entirely new world of possibilities. And it wasn't like she was in love with Santana because of it, nor was she in lust with her. She had enjoyed it..a lot (Part of her had even hoped that it would have happened again). But she knew that a relationship with Santana was out of the question; there were just too many factors working against it: the distance, how it would hurt Brittany (in spite of the fact that Brittany had no problem dating her ex), a certain other person whom lived here.

Though there was still the fact of the matter that it happened. And Santana's (lack of) response seemed to be an indication that she wanted to go the route of: _What drunken night?  
_

Quinn pulled the door open a few inches and stopped. "Does this mean that we are just going to pretend that we didn't..." She prevented herself from saying, _fucked each other's brains out, _and instead said, "hooked up?"

Santana's eyes fell to the ground, appearing as if she had just spotted a gold doubloon among the cigarette butts that littered the ground (and also making Quinn wonder who was smoking out here). "We both know it happened. Those two orgasms are proof of that."

"You only got two?"

Santana looked back up. "I'm better at finding the G-spot." A small grin accompanied this.

"You've had more practice."

Santana didn't respond to that, and really, what could she say anyway, leaving Quinn to push the door wide enough to walk in. Quinn immediately checked for any signs of _her _upon re-entrance, and sighed deeply with relief when there were none.

"Dani went home to change," Santana said as she slammed the door shut, causing it to make that slight clicking sound.

Quinn refrained from saying anything along the lines of _is she coming back _and went to the refrigerator for substance. She pushed past rice milk (Rachel's, no doubt) and what appeared to be a container of either guacamole or avocado facial scrub (clearly Kurt's), before finally locating what she wanted. It never failed that Santana would have beer. So what if she wasn't old enough to buy it; that never stopped her when they were fifteen.

Quinn had just popped the tab on the can of Yuengling, the sound echoing through the loft, when Santana cleared her throat. Quinn sucked down the foam that had emerged to the top then looked up to give her friend her undivided attention.

"Don't tell Dani about _you know what._"

Quinn raised her brow. "Already hiding secrets. I can tell that this relationship is going to really—"

"I will tell her, I promise." She had a look of pleading in her eye. Quinn wasn't used to seeing her in such a vulnerable state—it warranted something that Quinn never believed she'd have for her closest friend: pity.

Quinn put her can to her lips and held her head back, allowing the magical liquid—that ruined so many lives but also fixed so many problems—to flow down her throat. She didn't stop until she had downed almost the entire can, something that wasn't easy for her—she had difficulty chugging a can of Dr Pepper, much less the mildest form of alcohol (save wine coolers).

"Fine," she said finally, and then a belch escaped. It was not intentional, but somehow it really set the scene together. Especially when Santana laughed.

X—X—X—X—X

Dani had been halfway back to the loft when she stopped. Just stopped dead in her tracks. A sudden realization hit her: she didn't want to go back. She did not want to go back to a place were she would be given the third degree by a supposed best friend of her girlfriend—who also liked to judge others for what they did in private, apparently.

She pulled out her Nokia Lumina and held it up to see if she had any service.

No bars.

She stepped over a Checkers bag—which had moldy fries seeping out—that someone had carelessly thrown on the ground. She'd just call Santana and make an excuse, promise to make it up to her, something dirty; Santana would forgive her and then some.

One bar.

It wasn't like she had to be friends with all of Santana's friends. She got along with Rachel and Kurt just fine, and blonde girl wasn't even a close friend—not from what Dani presumed, anyway. Really, a close friend would make a much better effort to visit—Ivy League college or not.

One...tw...one bar.

Shit.

Dani let her frustrations be known...and heard. The result earned her a few puzzled looks from people close by, most whom looked up from their tablets and smartphones. Even the man in the overcoat, who was an obvious dealer, stopped his business transaction to gawk at her.

She didn't care, however, and resumed her mission. Why it was so hard to get service was beyond her, though she had a hunch that it had something to do with AT&T's ever growing war with Verizon over which has the better 4G service; apparently neither company cared if one could still make calls on their phone, only if they could go online from anywhere in the U.S.

_I should have gotten the unlimited texting package_, she thought as she walked towards the food carts. She had not had a girlfriend in so long that she had forgotten how often one ended up texting the other. However, she was reminded when she got a notification that told her that she had just used the last of hers, but at least it had gone to good use—Santana had loved the hand-bra pic.

She walked past the hot dog cart and the cart that sold hot roasted nuts (rumor was that the man that ran the cart never washed his hands). A single bar still showed. Her patience was running low. She passed the pretzel cart (they were always out of mustard). One bar...one bar...two bars!

"Yes!" she said for all to hear. She held her phone in the air and dangled it like it was a gold medal and she had just brought honor to the U.S.

"Dani?"

"No, officer, I'm not drunk," Dani said automatically. She brought her phone back down and hoped that she wouldn't be forced to walk a straight line and say the alphabet in front of all the onlookers.

Though she was...partially relieved to find that it wasn't a cop. Not a cop, but her co-worker, who was looking at her with those giant brown eyes, no doubt thinking the worst...and who could honestly blame her?

"Finally got that one pig on Angry Birds, huh?" said Rachel. "Personally, I don't like that game. It's cruel to pigs and birds. Why can't they just settle their differences peacefully?"

Dani put her phone in her pocket. There was no way that she could call Santana in front of Rachel without Rachel going back and revealing the truth. Rachel could not keep secrets—Dani knew too well from when Rachel regaled the staff with tales about her school and whom was hooking up with whom.

"Just trying to get service," Dani said. "I wanted to let Santana know that I was on my way back." She searched for something that would allow her to change the subject before any follow up questions were asked. The only thing that she could spot, however, was the plain pretzel—with a giant bite mark—that Rachel was holding. "Someone is hungry."

Rachel looked at her pretzel as if she was just learning that she was in possession of it. "Cassandra kept me after class and made me miss lunch."

Dani knew all about Cassandra: former Broadway star turned washed up, alcoholic dance teacher, whose only known pleasure was tormenting the less fortunate, namely Rachel.

"Why'd she do that? I thought you guys were cool now?"

"We were...for about five minutes. Now she's back to making me miserable, though she claims that she's doing me a favor by ensuring that my time in her class is hell." Rachel looked at her pretzel intently—_As if the twisted dough was her bitter teacher,_ thought Dani, concerned.

Dani was not about to say so, but she had a strong suspicion that Rachel's behavior was not entirely because of Casandra. Rachel had been dealing with her for over a semester, after all; why would now suddenly be any different? There was more to it, and Dani had an even stronger suspicion that it directly correlated with a certain death of a certain guy.

"We should get back," Dani said to Rachel, who had taken to breaking off and tossing pieces of her pretzel to the numerous pigeons that eagerly gobbled it up. "The others are probably waiting for us."

Rachel broke off another piece and held it between her thumb and index. "Kurt's working on a project for Ms. Wright, and Santana said she had to run errands."

So Rachel didn't know about the guest. Dani guessed that Santana wanted it to be a surprise. Possibly even something to raise Rachel's spirits. And it would be rude to ruin the surprise, no matter how shitty of one it was.

"Still, we should..." Dani said, and then realized that she had no incentive to get Rachel away from her birds and back to the loft without revealing why she wanted her back.

"Should what?"

Dani racked her brain to think of something that sounded plausible. The best that she could think of (on short notice) was that she left her favorite bra hanging on the lampshade in Santana's room—and that sounded more like bragging that she was "gettin' some" than a bona-fide excuse.

But then something saved her the trouble.

"Hold on," Dani said as she pulled out her phone that was blasting Keith Urban's _You'll Think of Me _and hit answer.

"Where the hell are you?" said Santana's voice, it being so loud that Dani could hear it even without it being at her ear (and so could Rachel, judging by the way she glanced over with a slightly worried expression).

"I'm on my way back," Dani responded while looking at Rachel. "I just ran into Rachel."

"Well, you both better get your asses here...and soon."

Dani fought a grin. "Don't worry. We will both be there."

They said their goodbyes and hung up. Dani then walked over to Rachel and tore off a piece of pretzel. "Better get back, San's orders." She flung her piece at the little pigeon that hadn't received any. That bird reminded her so much of Rachel: smaller than the rest, scared, vulnerable. But at least they had someone like her to look out for them.

Of course Rachel's problem wouldn't be able to be fixed just by tossing her a piece of twisted dough...

...but Dani sure wished that it could.

X—X—X—X—X

Quinn crushed her third beer can and set it down next to the other two (also crushed). "Any good restaurants out here?" The (stale) Goldfish crackers that Santana had found in the back of the cabinet failed to satisfy her gnawing hunger. What she wouldn't give for a hot meal right now. A burger would really hit the spot. Or a calzone.

"Damn, Q," said Santana, presumably having been alerted by her growing stomach noises, "sounds like two moose are getting it on in your digestive tracts."

Quinn lifted herself off the couch and shot her friend an annoyed look. "Feed me and it'll go away."

"You know we can't till they get back. Eat some more crackers."

"They taste like cardboard...and you're out."

The sudden knocking on the door—quick, frantic knocks—made them both turn towards the source. Quinn could vaguely decipher some shouts, sounding as if it was being done by more than one individual, but before she could so much as sit all the way up-right, Santana was undoing the chain and master lock.

"'Bout time," Santana said to the person(s) that could not be seen from where Quinn was situated.

"I was just...Quinn!"

There was squealing...and shouting...and the sensation that one got when a warm body was pressed against their own and a pair of eager arms wrapped around one's lower back. Now had this body belonged to anyone else, Quinn would have reacted by sumo throwing the person and following up with a flying elbow to the softest part of their stomach. But when the person happened to be Rachel fucking Berry, well...

"Good to see you too, Rach." Quinn's words came out in a wheeze—a direct result of having both her abdomen and windpipes squeezed by a girl whom was treating their meeting as if Quinn had just returned from a tour in Iraq.

"Don't crush Q to death," said Santana. "She still has to treat us to dinner."

Quinn utilized all her strength and lifted both herself and Rachel; the end result was her sitting upright with Rachel in her lap—almost like a Mother Teresa painting. She then peered over Rachel's head to glare at Santana, an act that proved to be pointless—Santana had all her attention focused on someone else.

Rachel rolled off seconds later, causing Quinn to immediately feel the absence of her body. The warmness, the familiarity—gone as fast as they arrived. She was not okay with that and attempted to rectify the situation by entwining her hand with the one belonging to Rachel. However, much to her shock, Rachel jerked her hand away just as Quinn made contact. Confused, Quinn scanned her friend, desperately wanting answers.

Rachel appeared to know what Quinn was thinking, because she said in a low key voice, "Why haven't you called? Or texted? Or trained an owl to send letters back and forth?"

So that was it. Quinn would be lying if she said that she wasn't expecting this. She had known even as she had been debating over whether to pack another pair of skinny jeans or a dress for the trip. It was inevitable. Still, she had hoped that Rachel would have at least waited until they were in private...and not within the range of _people _that had no fucking business listening in.

Quinn's hand reached out again, getting the exact same result. She let off a few groans and several sighs, torn over which direction (of lies) to go into. There was the ever popular: _School is tougher than I thought _route. Or there was the: _It's been complicated, what with Finn and all_; that one was only a half lie.

Though she was saved the trouble, thanks entirely to Santana's sudden declaration of, "Enough of this touchy feely shit. We need to give Quinn a taste of New York's finest dining...for under twenty bucks."

Quinn sent a silent thank you to her best friend and rose up, keeping her line of sight far away from Rachel as she did. "Yeah, sell me on how great the Big Apple is." She took a deep breath. "Just in case I ever feel like moving out here myself."

She had mostly said it to gauge what sort of reaction it would evoke, and it ended up evoking three very different ones. Though only one of the three's truly mattered. Too bad for Quinn that person was also the one that showed the least amount of enthusiasm about it.

Rachel didn't want her to move to New York. She hadn't honestly been considering it, not when she hadn't even finished her first year of Yale. It didn't change the fact, however.

The absence of Rachel was greater than ever, Quinn thought. Even if Rachel jumped back into her arms, ran her slender body against Quinn's own, placed those lips— that Quinn couldn't imagine being anything other than soft—against her flesh, she knew she'd still feel the dissociation that she had. Human contact couldn't change that.

She wasn't sure that anything could.

X—X—X—X—X

By the time that the four of them had finished their reasonably priced meal and left the restaurant (after having left a nice tip, Santana insisted, as according to her, _We_—we referring to her, Rachel, and Dani—_are one of them now. And we gots to looks out for ones anothers_), the sun had began to set, thus casting an orange glow that illuminated the horizon and compelled them to take the long way home.

"This is nice," Quinn said. She held up her gelato—one scoop blackberry and one scoop apricot—and took a long lick of the blackberry part. The cool creaminess felt so good against her tongue, probably even more than it should.

After taking another long lick, Quinn started walking backwards to check on the others, none whom had spoken in a good while; this was unusual, especially for Rachel and Santana. Though it took only a second to learn why in Santana's case.

It was not a sight that was pleasing to the eyes; not to Quinn's eyes, anyway (a guy would be a different story, she was sure). The way Santana and Dani took turns feeding one another with their ice cream cones (they opted for boring strawberry and bland chocolate) and deliberately smeared it on one another's faces caused Quinn to lose her appetite for her own delicious Italian dessert. The fact that they also giggled like two pre-teens looking at a Playgirl for the first time (or Playboy in their case) made it all the worse.

Quinn adverted her eyes (for the sake of her sanity) and turned her focus to Rachel. Said girl was trailing behind and fiddling with the top button on her blouse; every few seconds she would undo it and then redo it, as if she couldn't decide whether or not to leave it alone. Quinn could relate. Should she say something to Rachel about the way she was acting? Would that bring up painful memories about the past, most notably a certain guy?

There was only one way to be sure.

Quinn slowed her pace enough to allow the couple to pass her by, neither that paid her any heed as they continued their irritating display of affections, then backpedaled herself until she was walking next to Rachel and moving at the same slow pace that Rachel was utilizing.

"Nice evening," Quinn said, deciding to ease into what she wanted to ask.

Rachel sort of grunted in response.

_Not gonna make this easy,_ _are you?_ Quinn thought. Her spirit was slightly wavered, but she wasn't finished. Quinn Fabray never gave up on anything that easily; she was the girl who spent five dollars and seventy-five cents just to win a small Garfield plush from a crane machine. "This gelato is great." She held up her cone for Rachel to observe. You should have gotten some."

Rachel kicked a pine cone, causing it to skitter down the sidewalk a good ways. "They didn't have any vegan options."

"I thought you were a vegetarian now?"

"Huh, oh yeah, guess I am."

Quinn was more than a little confused. Either Rachel wasn't fully invested in this conversation or she was not nearly as serious about her animal rights activism (the same type of shit that she used to attempt to get the other members of glee behind—with no success) as she let on. Quinn hoped that it was the latter, no matter how much of a long shot that was.

"So," Quinn began, deciding that a fresh topic was the way to go, "we'll have to do some sight seeing while I'm here. I didn't get a chance to see anything the last time."

Rachel stuck her hands in her pockets. "I've got classes and work." She thrust her right leg up, giving the illusion that she was kicking at a soccer ball. "Maybe Santana can."

Quinn took a sharp breath, allowing New York's air (that she figured was ten percent oxygen and ninety percent toxic chemicals) to infiltrate her lungs. She knew that she had to choose her words carefully—something that she had never been particularly good at, no thanks to having a highly out spoken father and an even more outspoken role model in the form of Coach Sue Sylvester. There was also the fact that saying what she (truly) felt had came back to bite her in the ass, most notably when she was attempting to talk Rachel out of throwing her life away by marrying Finn (she still had nightmares about what would have happened had they gone through with the ordeal). But she didn't come all this way just to be given the cold shoulder. She wanted to spend time with her best friend and a girl whom...was also a friend. And that meant that she was going to have to say something...no matter the consequences.

"Listen," Quinn said suddenly, her voice loud and commanding—enough to startle Rachel, in fact. "I'm sorry I haven't called. Or visited. Or rented a plane and parachuted into your living room." She hoped that the last one would make Rachel laugh; she'd settle for a smile, though Rachel's expression remained somber as ever. "But being all mopey and shit won't change anything."

Quinn waited. She just stood there, not even caring that her rapidly melting dessert was dripping all over her hand and leaving it sticky. It had felt good—to just get everything off her chest. Better that Rachel knew than the two of them continue to do their little dance of avoidance. It might even be just what they both needed to pave the way to healing and forming an even stronger bond than ever.

"I'm turning in early tonight," Rachel finally said, after well over a minute of just starring off at a field that bore a _Do Not Litter_ sign, the little good it did—it was full of fast food wrappers, beer cans, and (if Quinn wasn't mistaken) used condoms. "You can watch T.V. if you want."

Quinn did not respond, verbally or otherwise, and just turned away, being unable to so much as stand in the same direction as her friend (if she could even call Rachel that now). Rachel did not want to let her in on what was troubling her; that much was obvious. Why Rachel was distancing herself, however, was not so concrete. That would require extensive research and a shit-load of snooping: Mission Impossible level stuff.

But that would also require her to want to find out more. And she had to ask herself: Did she want to? Did she want to mend her damaged relationship with Rachel? Did she want things to go back to the way they were?

The way they were...with her and Rachel just being friends...and nothing more.

Quinn held up her gelato that had melted so much that several long, stream like patterns had formed down the cone and drifted into her hand, stopping at her palm which now bore a discernible dark red stain. It was an odd stain at that—a bit on the abstract side, with its swirls and rigid points, though it also showed a slight resemblance to a face. The face of a person with short hair and a wide jaw line; the same features of Fi—

_What the fuck is wrong with me?_

She shook her head several times. Oh how she wished that her life was a cartoon and guilt could manifest as a sentient being. Hers would be in the form of Mr. Schue, no doubt. He'd be the little angel that appears on the left shoulder, and Coach Sylvester would be the devil—in the non-flattering skin tight red suit. Angel Schue would pester her about how she let down the others by not coming to the funeral and Devil Sylvester would—

Quinn scoffed at herself. What the fuck was she thinking: attempting to justify her own actions, and with Coach Sylvester as a model of justice to boot. Even the woman who once said that Kim Jong Il had been too lenient in his reign would not support her for opting out of going to Finn's funeral (especially if she knew that Quinn had not been cramming for a test like Quinn had claimed in her mass text to the current New Directioners).

Quinn looked at her stain again. It no longer looked like Finn—it just looked like melted Italian ice cream. That's all it had ever been, she decided. And then she raised her arm back and hurled her cone. She really put her delt muscles into it...and it paid off. That thing soared through the air...and landed right on the _Not_ part of the _Do Not Litter _sign...stuck for a second...and then flopped into the grass with the other garbage, leaving behind a smear in the same shade as Quinn's stained palm.

Quinn found herself smiling at the irony. It gave her an odd sense of pleasure. Maybe it was because Rachel was so against littering (and vocal about it, also). Whatever reason it be, it was worth spending all that money just to defile public property and make the (horrible) city of New York just a little less beautiful.

_Definitely worth it,_ she thought as she ran to catch up to the others.

X—X—X—X—X

"Why does your friend hate me so much?" Dani asked from the closet, the only place she had to change into her lingerie without having to leave the bedroom and risk running into someone else (no need to go down that path a second time).

"Quinn?" said Santana's voice. "What makes you think that?"

Dani peeped through the small crack in the door to get a glimpse of her girlfriend. And she picked the perfect time to do so—she peeped out just in time to see the shorts that Santana had been wearing fall to the ground. Thinking about those shorts...and how they were no longer concealing whatever underwear Santana was wearing (if any) momentarily distracted her, but she forced her perverted mind into submission and said, "You saw the way she looked at us. At me. Plus, what about earlier when you weren't here?"

"That was hilarious. I wish I had been there."

"Yes, hilarious." Dani hoped that her sarcasm traveled through the wood. "But what's up with her giving me the third degree? And insinuating that I was slut for having sex...with the girl that I am in a committed relationship with?"

"Q is a hard core Brittanaian. She once told me that if me and Brittany couldn't make it than no glee couple could. She turned out to be right. Guess that's what New Directioners get for never dating outside the circle of fuck-ups. Like one big, inbred family."

Dani took in those words, particularly the part concerning Brittana. Could that be it? Was Quinn angry at her because of it, despite the fact that Santana and Brittany had broken up several months prior to herself and Santana getting together, and Brittany had also been the first one to move on...with the guy with the trouty lips, no less. (Santana was right—that glee club really was inbred.)

"It's not fair, you know." Dani worked the claps on her bra, undoing both with one flick (plenty of practice in that area). "Why am I the scapegoat?" She pushed the bra straps off her arms. "Shouldn't she be as mad at Brittany...if not more?"

"No one can stay mad at Brit; she's like a puppy that drags the turkey off the table—'ya wanna be furious at it, but then 'ya look into those big pleading eyes and instantly forgive it."

Dani did not respond to that, mostly due to the fact that she did not want to let Santana know that she hated dogs, especially ones that ruined Thanksgiving dinner, and Santana could very well parallel that connection to the notion that Dani did not like her ex. That wasn't true, of course. Dani didn't hate Brittany; she only knew the girl from the stories that Santana and occasionally Rachel or Kurt told. Those stories also made Dani wonder if they were exaggerating Brittany's character for the sake of good storytelling, because she could not fathom anyone being as..._creative_ as Brittany. Double if this was the same girl who supposedly got into MIT.

"If 'ya get to know Quinn then I am sure that you will like her," Santana went on. "When Q and I met we hated each other."

Dani used her left arm to pull her bra off her chest. "Really?" She dropped her bra on top of her jeans and tee. "How come?"

Santana let out what sounded like a bemused chuckle. "The first week of Freshman year I spread a rumor that Q would give any guy a blowjob if they brought her an Almond Joy."

"Are you serious?"

"Yep. And Q hates coconut at that. Made it all the funnier when the guy would go up to her and ask when they could _get down to business_."

Dani felt compelled to hear more. These were the kind of things that she wanted to know about; it might even prove vital at some point down the road.

"Did she ever trace it back to you?"

"Yeah, after the school's vending machine ran out of Almond Joy and a Junior asked her if a Zagnut would get him a footjob."

Dani found herself leaning against the door, almost to the point that it could open and cause her to fall out. "And what'd she do?"

"Just started her own rumor that I was the daughter of a Colombian drug lord and that my locker contained twenty bricks of pure, uncut Peruvian white powder. You should have been there." Santana laughed again. "The cops swarming the school with the K-9 Patrol. Damn, those dogs went crazy."

Dani could hardly believe what she had heard, even after she took the time to replay every event in her head. "Why?" she finally asked, wondering what could have started all this. "Why'd you guys do all that?"

"We both wanted the head Cheerio position."

Dani waited for the rest, but none came. That was it? That was what they nearly destroyed one another's high school experience over? To be the captain of their cheerleading team? Not even because they were in some Betty and Veronica type set-up and were pining after the same guy. Dani felt as if she had just reread Edgar Allen Poe's _The Cask of Amontillado—_that was the only time she ever believed that she would hear of someone carrying out an elaborate revenge over something petty.

"Wow." Dani did her best to contain herself, and that was not easy—this was a lot to take in. She knew that, on account of still being in the developmental part of their relationship, they would be discovering new and exciting things about one another. Of course she had assumed that the things would be around the area of: _I hate country music _or_ I only do anal on special occasions. _

"But no matter what happened, and that's been a lot, we've always made amends. We're the two amigos. And when Britt was around we were the Unholy Trinity—the three baddest motherfuckers to ever walk the never cleaned halls of McKinley."

That unintentionally struck a nerve in Dani. She knew that Santana meant nothing by it, but she could not help but feel the tiniest bit dejected. Quinn and Brittany had history with Santana; all she had was their time at the diner, most of which they spent making fun of the customers (behind their backs, obviously). And Quinn being here just reminded Dani of that fact.

Dani slid out of her yellow panties with the blue lace and small bow in the front (her favorite pair). Now completely nude, she was ready to put on her lingerie, so that Santana could take it back off. Though she hadn't so much as unfolded it before something overtook her. A voice of sorts. While vague, it seemed to emphasize a rather focal point: that she shouldn't be upset over the past, not when she could do something about the future. And cliched or not, that was very, very true.

"I wanna get to know your friends better," Dani said, sticking her head out just a peep. "I know I can't do anything about what happened at your old school, but I want us to have memories like that."

Santana moved close enough that Dani could smell her vanilla and lavender moisturizer. "We will. You, me, Q, and probably Lady Hummel and Jewfassa as well."

"Wh...oh, you mean Kurt and Rachel."

"Yeah, I give them friendly nicknames. They love it. Especially Rachel, 'cause I got so much to work with. Some days I make fun of her for being a dwarf. Others days it's for having that massive honker. But I think my favorite ones involve the speed bumps that she calls breasts. Did 'ya know that she was going to appear topless in a documentary?"

Dani pushed the door open a little more. "Rachel? The same girl that screamed when I saw the back of her ass...in a thong?"

Santana nodded. "The very same."

"What happened?"

"Q and I came to New York and talked her out of it. Then we sang a trio. We do that a lot—sing."

Just like that, Dani was presented with yet another memory that they had (and she didn't). Hearing about all the wonderful (and not so wonderful) times that Santana and her compadres experienced was rapidly killing her sex drive.

Dani stuck her head out completely, catching sight of Santana, whose hand was inside her black panties—no doubt to warm up for the main event. And seeing that certainly gave Dani...ideas, but she was far too out of it to act on them; she hated giving a shitty performance, anyway. Half-assing it at work was acceptable, but not in the bedroom—that was almost her golden rule, and if she ever found a shop that would print it on a t-shirt then it would definitely be.

"Gotta use the little girl's room," she said, forcing herself to look at the ceiling to prevent herself from succumbing to her own hormones. "Hand me a robe."

Dani didn't have to see to know that her girlfriend was giving her a look, and she couldn't blame her for it, either. Nakedness was not a foreign concept; Dani knew Santana's nude body well and vice versa. They were most certainly not a couple that turned the lights off or felt embarrassed once the deed had been done—far from it. For their one month anniversary they watched a movie and ate pizza...while naked. (They later agreed that they would make sure that the pizza had cooled enough that the cheese would not burn their skin; hot cheese does not feel good against sensitive nipples.)

Santana did not comply to the request, and it was obvious that she was doing it just to rile Dani up. Dani knew, too well, how she operated; how she thought. And she knew that Santana wanted her to run out the closet, to expose herself for Santana's amusement...and pleasure; definitely for the pleasure.

Any other time Dani would have complied—gladly. But at the moment she needed some alone time...to think...to clear her head—which would be impossible to do if it was buried between her girlfriend's thighs.

That was why she shielded her eyes and walked out. Shielded them like she was Perseus fleeing from Medusa. She was forced to rely on her other senses to navigate the room...with failed results, as she learned when she bumped against a chair...and then again when she stepped on something that was sharp enough to send searing pain up her leg.

"Fuck!" she said, groaning loudly. She used her free hand to rub her injury, examining the skin closely to see if there were any gashes.

"Fuck?" said Santana. "I intend to."

Dani spread her fingers enough to allow her slight vision. She located Santana's robe: it having been carelessly tossed against the chair to Santana's make-up desk, likely after her shower from earlier. A quick examine revealed that it was still damp in certain places, but Dani didn't care and put it on, immediately feeling its dampness against her skin.

"The fun is over here," Santana called out, and again Dani forced herself to not look, not give in to her lustful urges. She had to tap into willpower that she normally reserved for bathing suit season—the time of the year that she most wanted to gorge on brownies, cupcakes, and pastries filled with gooey chocolate and rich custard.

It worked, thankfully. She got out of the room in the nick of time; another second and she would have cracked—she knew because she left right after she bore witness to Santana's bra hitting against the door. And that took an entire chant of S_tomach flab shows even more in a bikini_ to keep her from looking back (it was the only chant she knew, but it still worked, surprisingly).

Once she was safely on the other side of the door, away from her evil girlfriend whom was trying to tempt her with wild, passionate sex that would give them both immense pleasure and many orgasms, she sighed with relief..and then laughed. She was actually happy that she avoided having sex. That hadn't happened since she realized that she was gay and was still dating that one guy. What was his name? Chad? Or was it Nico? Possibly Grady? No, no way would she ever date someone named Grady.

X—X—X—X—X

Though she had been living in New York for almost four years, Dani still found that she was not accustomed to some things—the cool night air being one of them. It really hit a person hard, and the fact that the only thing covering her nude body was a damp robe did not help matters one bit.

"Goddamn," she said, shivering. The cold had sent a numbing chill through her whole body...and she could feel its full effect—everything from the small goosebumps that had formed in uneven rows on her forearms to her nipples, which stood hard enough to cut glass.

She did one final test to determine how cold it was (despite the rapid loss of feeling in her toes being an already good indication). The test worked: she saw her breath manifest as a smoke like wisp. As a child, up until she was twelve or so, she used to pretend that she was smoking and blowing out the smoke the same way her father did when he had his daily three packs of cigarettes; sometimes she'd further the charade by holding a Tootsie Roll Pop in her mouth like it was one of her father's precious cancer sticks.

"Ahh, memories," Dani said, speaking aloud just to see her breath in front of her. It was tough—being reminded that she couldn't go back, not even for a visit. It would always be like that unless she agreed to her parents' terms: the main one being that she admit that being gay was a "disgusting disease, no different from drug addiction or animal cruelty." (Even now she could not fathom how her parents could put her liking vaginas and people that beat their pets in the same category.)

It wasn't like she regretted her decision. She knew that she would have eventually left home to pursue a better life, and at least this way she found out how her parents truly felt. It was better that way than for them to come for a visit and question her on why there was only one bed in the apartment that she was sharing with another girl.

A slight breeze blew. Dani reacted by holding onto her bathrobe, as if doing so could somehow shield her from the frigid air that would inevitably cause her to wake up tomorrow coughing up phlegm.

She brought her hand to her face and rested her palm against her cheek, though she found that she could not feel either—two excellent indications to go back inside. Back inside where she had a gorgeous woman waiting for—who was both naked and full of raw sexual desire. She accounted that Santana would be pissed over being abandoned, but Dani knew that she could get back in her good graces; usually all it took was for her to reenact the whipped cream bikini scene from _Varsity Blues._

Dani did a twirl to turn herself around: partly for fun, but also to make sure that she had complete use of her legs and her hips, just in case tonight's activities were to require her to move them a lot, such as in a back and forth motion.

She spotted someone mid-twirl—Rachel, she believed. And a twirl in reverse confirmed it. There Rachel was, just a few feet from Dani. Her body was leaned over the terrace and she was so sentient that she could have passed for a marble statue of the Michelangelo quality.

Her features were hard to discern in the dark, though it was rather obvious that she was troubled. Hell, Dani already knew that from earlier, when Rachel sulked all through dinner, not speaking unless spoken to, and sometimes not even then. Definitely not the same Rachel that Dani met; the girl who had rambled so frequently that, more than once, she had questioned if Rachel was lighting up in the bathroom (and also if she could get in on it).

This was not the first that she was seeing of Rachel's grievance—it had been appearing at random intervals since the funeral, some instances more severe than others (for some reason Rachel had broken down into tears after a customer at the diner ordered a grilled cheese sandwich). It was completely understandable; Finn had meant a lot to Rachel. Dani didn't know exactly what their status was (no one at the loft was too keen on discussing him, Rachel especially), but she knew enough to know that they had quite the history. Finn and Rachel's dating life seemed a bit...to put it nicely...fucked up, though Dani figured that a big reason for that was because she was hearing the majority of it in a biased version from Santana.

Two loud banging sounds suddenly rang through the air. They startled Dani enough to make her duck for cover, even though she knew they were not gun shots of any sort—a person only had to live in New York for a week to become familiar with gun shots; Dani was well versed enough to be able to tell the difference between a shot fired from a Glock and one fired from a Ruger.

She didn't get a chance to contemplate what it could (or couldn't) be, however, because it occurred again, though slower and more rhythmic, almost sounding like hail beating against glass.

The sound was close, Dani could tell. And being several stories up, with no nearby people, she deduced that it was coming from inside the loft—her best bet being her (pissed off) girlfriend, probably wondering why the hell Dani was standing outside, freezing her ass off, as opposed to being in the bedroom, sitting on the bed on all fours, waving that same ass in the air in a _please fuck me silly _motion.

It was not Santana, as it turned out, but Quinn. She was repeatedly tapping the glass, as if trying to catch someone's attention, mostly likely Rachel's, Dani reasoned. Why Quinn did not just suck it up and walk out, she did not know...nor care.

Dani went inside, navigating around Quinn to do so. She did not stop until she was at the kitchen cabinets and holding the extra large box of Swiss Miss.

The difference in temperatures was palpable to her even as she took that first step in, though she still found that her body was nowhere near adapted; that would require hot cocoa. Hot cocoa and the pressing of a naked body against her own.

"You talk to Rachel?" Quinn asked as she turned away from the door and made the short trek to the kitchen.

"No." Dani grabbed one of the only two clean coffee mugs and stuck it under the Pur water filter attached to the sink. "I didn't even realize she was there till I was about to go back inside."

"I'm worried about her."

Dani flicked the tab to turn on the filter and then twisted the cold water knob on the faucet. A stream of clean water soon flowed into her mug. "So am I." She turned off the water, picked up her mug, and carried it to the microwave.

"You don't know her."

"I see her about everyday." Dani opened up the microwave (that was in need of a thorough dish liquid rubdown) and set her cup in it. "Plus I've heard more about McKinley in two months than I did about my parents childhood in sixteen years."

"You can't judge a person based on what you've heard."

Dani could barely close the microwave door and press the appropriate buttons. In fact, she messed up twice and had to start over. Was Quinn not aware of the irony of what she just said? Was this girl seriously getting on to her about _judging _others? Hypocrisy, thy name is Quinn Fabray.

Dani almost didn't say anything, but this was too ripe to pass up. Quinn might not set her up for such an easy target—she just had to jump on it.

"But you can judge someone for having sex with their girlfriend?" Dani leaned in close, eyes wide, eager to hear what sort of retaliation she would give.

Quinn let out an audible groan. "Let it go."

Dani held her position. "No, please, tell me oh wise one, why is it okay for your to judge others—namely me?"

"Forget it." Quinn tossed her long hair over her shoulder—for effect, Dani guessed—and started towards the couch. From where she stood, Dani could see a folded blanket and a single pillow resting on the middle cushion.

"You know," Dani called out, causing Quinn to stop in place, "she wasn't this bad till you showed up."

Quinn kept her back turned. "What are you implying?"

The microwave went off, and rather than answer, Dani took out her cup, which had steam rising from it, and set it on the counter. This was followed by opening her packet of cocoa—slowly, of course—dumping the mix into her cup, and stirring it with a plastic spoon, also done slowly. Quinn, whose back remained turned, emulated some..._amusing_ body expressions throughout; Dani's favorite was the way Quinn's shoulder blades kept tensing—Dani could actually see her trap muscles rise and fall.

Dani finally got tired of giving her a delt workout and said, "Rachel was doing fine...you show up...and now—"

Quinn whirled around, fire in her eyes, nostrils flared. "Finish that sentence." She held up a clenched fist. "I dare you."

Dani reached for the handle to her cup. "I got hot beverage and I ain't afraid to use it." She had not accounted on Quinn reacting to such a magnitude. At the most she figured she'd get the finger and that'd be the end of it.

The threat of hot beverage did little (if anything) to waiver Quinn, who ended up right in Dani's face, scowling as fiercely as a UFC fighter getting ready to beat the shit out of their opponent. Quinn didn't strike, however, she just stood her ground. Stood and breathed heavily: in through the mouth, out through the nostrils.

Dani didn't quite know what to make out of it, but she opted out of any sudden movement...or any movement for that matter. Quinn was a ticking time bomb—that much was clear. What would finally set her off was the true question of the hour.

The sudden sound of a door sliding made Quinn turn away, with Dani following suit.

"Rachel," said Quinn, her voice sounding raspy, like a worn-out broom scraping across an even more worn-out wooden floor.

"I'm going to brush my teeth and go to bed," Rachel said.

"I'm here if you need to talk," Quinn said to Rachel as she walked by without so much as a crane of the neck.

Dani shook her head. She had only caught a glimpse of Rachel as she hurried by, though a glimpse was plenty to discern the fact that Rachel had been crying—the puffy eyes being the giveaway. "There's something going on with her."

Quinn turned back, appearing as if she just remembered that she had been in a stare down mere moments before. "No shit." She spit out her words—literally; Dani could feel each bead of saliva that clung to her lip, especially the one that dangled from her philtrum.

"Say it, don't spray it," Dani said. She shoved Quinn aside to go to the sink and wet a piece of paper towel, which she then used to rid her lip of Quinn germs.

"I do care about her."

Dani wadded up her paper towel and tossed it at the trash can...missing by a mile. "I know 'ya do."

"I wish I had been there for her." For some reason Quinn's right left forearm was pressed into her stomach—as if fighting (and losing) a battle with her intestines over whether or not her dinner would come back up.

Dani kept her distance, entirely out of fear that Quinn was about to make a mess that would require sawdust and heavy duty cleaning supplies. Much to her shock, she actually felt..._empathy_ for Quinn. For the situation that she was in. That was surprising, considering that she could not relate firsthand; she didn't have a close friend that was slowly drifting away from her.

Several minutes later, after Dani had finished her cocoa, rinsed the mug, and gone to the bathroom, can of Redi-Whip in hand, something else dawned on her. It was a bit of a stretch, but it was plausible.

_Can it be? _she asked herself. She sprayed a generous glop of whipped cream on her right breast while mulling it over further. It would certainly explain a few things: such as why Quinn took it so personally over the insinuation that she was the reason for Rachel's downward spiral in emotions.

And there was the whole "proverbial toe in the lesbian pool." Dani wished she had gotten an elaboration on just how deep Quinn had ventured in. Drunken kiss? Drunken make out session? Drunken "full on muff dive?"

It was probably the first or second, she decided as she coated her other breast and checked her craftsmanship in the mirror.

She finished her job, putting an extra large amount of the whipped cream on her most private area, and then went out, after monitoring the halls to make sure that no one else was lurking about, of course.

And though she attempted to keep her thoughts solely on Santana—more importantly what Santana would do when she went into the bedroom—she found that they were more focused on Quinn; how Quinn could have feelings for Rachel...and how Rachel might even feel the same.

Two couples—both consisting of girls. That meant double dates, movie nights, discussions about which couple had the more adventurous sex life (obviously alcohol would also be involved for that one). Next to having a girlfriend that was willing to do just about anything in the bedroom (and Santana fit that bill and then some), it was Dani's greatest fantasy, and one that she did not think would happen for many years from now; when she was in her early thirties and settled into a go nowhere relationship with a housewife that was cheating on her husband because she was in a sexless marriage.

But she couldn't count her chickens just yet. If one semester at Queens College had taught her anything (other than sorority pledges really will do _anything _during hell week), it was that without sources and facts a theory will forever remain that—a theory. A hypothetical. An F term paper.

She had a source, however. A reliable one at that. Santana was bound to know Quinn's level of commitment to the wonderful world of lesbianism; how far Quinn had gone with a woman. Santana might even be able to tell her the name of the woman.

After all, it wasn't like they kept secrets from one another.


End file.
